


Method of Murder

by Ozymanreis



Series: Sheriarty Week [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4217202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The other word, Sherlock. Say the other word.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Method of Murder

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for today is: Angst, Hurt and Comfort!

Jim startles awake, a thin sheen of sweat coating his body, sheets sticking to his bare midriff. He sits up fully, swiping his wrist over his forehead. It’d been years since he’d gotten a decent night’s sleep. 

Things had calmed down for a while after he’d met Sherlock, but right after _the_ _fall_ things had gotten worse again. Terrors. Visiting him at his most vulnerable. Like his own subconscious was trying to take revenge on his spiteful game. They’d both survived, but it remains clear who the guilty party is. 

“Jim?” A sleepy voice rises from the dark beside him, Sherlock’s face coming in to view in the moonlight. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” The consulting criminal is breathless, thus making his assertion less credible, “Just… nightmares again.”

Sherlock sits up to meet Jim’s eye, placing a hand over his lover’s, “What was it about this time?” The detective had forgiven Jim long ago, perhaps even thirty seconds after he was safe. Almost naively trusting, understanding of the criminal. 

Something like that would probably happen again. Jim couldn’t help it. 

“Piranhas.” Jim answers simply, rubbing his eyes, “I think I might’ve been being buried or something…”

“Alive?”

“Mhm.” Jim yawns, stretching a little before settling back into Sherlock’s arms, “I was wrapped in silk, but I wasn’t struggling anyway… and you set me in the Amazon river to die… either by drowning or blood loss.” 

“That’s a rather elaborate method of murder…”

“I doubt efficiency was your priority…” Jim sighs, “You just wanted to punish me.”

Sherlock shrugs, kissing the shorter man’s temple, “Punishment is an outdated concept, and has been proven by countless psychological studies to be- ”

“You were angry.” Jim interrupts, though the cold, logical lines are something of a comfort, “That tends to derail the most sensible course.”

“Angry about what?” In all honesty, in their entire relationship and rivalry, Sherlock had only felt _anger_ when he was staring “Rich Brook” down, his life falling apart around him. Even then, it was admirable from a removed standpoint. 

Jim rolls over, hugging the pillow, murmuring into it, “The fact I’ll never change.” 

“Nonsense.” Sherlock assures, curling up against Jim’s back, “It is _if_ you ever changed that we might have problems… You came to me as you are, and I couldn’t be more devoted.”

“Devoted…” Jim echoes, voice turning into a frustrated plea, “The other word, Sherlock. Say the other word.” It’s not often he asks, as he feels the word is utterly inadequate, for _ordinary_ people to express, but right now it feels like the only thing keeping him alive.  

“Love.” The detective obliges, kissing Jim’s cheek, “I love you, and accept you, Jim. Just the way you are.”

Jim nods, movement muted by the mattress, “Better now.” He’s lying, but he doesn’t want to drag Sherlock through this. It’s his own battle to fight, his own demons to succumb to. 

Within moments, Sherlock is snoring. Sleeping like a baby, without a care in the world. 

Jim lays there, wide awake, the tiniest drip of a faucet akin to the cacophony of a marching band. His time left will be short, and he knows it. 

No time to waste on sleep. 


End file.
